TWENTY POEMS BY JOHN FREEMAN 1909 TWENTY POEMS TWENTY POEMS By JOHN FREEMAN LONDON GAY & HANCOCK, Ltd. Henrietta Street, Covent Garden 1909 All rights reserved. Some of these poems have already appeared in THE ACADEMY, THE DAILY NEWS, THE PALL MALL MAGAZINE, THE SPECTATOR. The A uthor thanks the respective Editors for permission to reprint. 394244 CONTENTS PAGE PRAYER TO MY LORD .... 9 I. HAPPY DEATH ... . IO II. AT THE DOCK II III. FOGGY NOON 12 IV. NIGHT AMONG THE TREES . .13 V. LEAF-FALL IN OCTOBER . . .15 VI. A MEETING WITH SORROW . . l6 VII. JOY 19 VIII. THE FLAME 21 IX. WISDOM AND A MOTHER . . .24 X. THE THRUSH SINGS . . . -25 XI. " THE MEN WHO LOVED THE CAUSE THAT NEVER DIES " . . .26 xii. AT EVENING'S HUSH . . .27 XIII. NAMELESS GRIEF . . . .28 XIV. THE PUPPET-MASTER . . . 3O XV. ON A PIECE OF SILVER . .3! 7 8 CONTENTS PAGE XVI. EARTH TO EARTH . . . -32 XVII. THE ESCAPE 33 XVIII. THE TREE 35 XIX. HEALING .... . 36 XX. THE SISTERS 37 TO MY MOTHER 40 Twenty Poems PRAYER TO MY LORD LORD, there are words that were not meant for Thee In this poor morgue of petty imagery ! Things that sore need yet are not worth Thy righting, True things writ false, conceived with heart unsighting ; Intent for " this," yet plainly shewing " that," Utterly failed of the mark I flung them at. Not meant nor meet for Thee, Lord ! but they shew (Unguessed of me) the way my heart would go, Violently vagrant, uncontrolled of Thee. . . . Oh ! if for errant folly pardon may be, And welcome for the tardy feet's return O'er ways where ancient sins like scorpions burn ; If there be Wine and Bread Thou Bread and Wine ! For the perplexed heart, Lord, that seeks Thine ; Take of the heart that loved Thee while it lost, This that but proves what poor heart needs Thee most. Oh ! since the hand is Thine, the tongue, the head, And all that daily avoids the imminent dead, Call the words Thine too ; so their only praise Be that, all-worthless, they yet gained Thy grace. io POEMS i HAPPY DEATH BUGLE and battle-cry are still. The long strife's over ; Low o'er the corpse-encumbered hill The sad stars hover. It is in vain, O stars ! ye look On these forsaken : Awhile with blows on blows they shook, Or struck unshaken. Needs now no pity of God or man . . . Tears for the living ! They have 'scaped the confines of life's plan That holds us grieving. The unperturbed soft moon, the stars, The breeze that lingers, Wake not to ineffectual wars Their hearts and fingers. Warriors o'ercoming and o'ercome, Alike contented, Have marched now to the last far drum, Praised, unlamented. Bugle and battle-cry are still, The long strife's over ; Oh that with them I had fought my fill And found like cover ! POEMS ii ii AT THE DOCK THE SHIP THEY loiter round the Dock that holds yon Ship Shuddering at the dark pool's defiled lip From springing bows to foam-deriding stern ; They have left her, and await her call " Return." Like any human mistress she has cast Careless her ancient lovers, till at last Perforce she calls them, and perforce they come Like any human lovers. . . . Ah, what home Know these, save in the Ship, the Ship ! She groans Day and night with travail of their strenuous bones. They know her for their mother, sister, spouse, Heart of their passion, idol of their vows ; They ward her, and she is their sure defence 'Gainst the sad waters' leagued malevolence. The Ship, the Ship ! they are her slaves, and she Their Liege, their Faith, their Fate, their History. Lo ! they have bought her buoyancy with their blood And their ribs cling the keel that cleaves the flood. Their watches in the night, their loneliness, Their toil, hunger and thirst, their heart's distress, Their hands, their feet, far eye and smitten head Whereon the Sea's upgathered weight is shed ; With these the Ship, the Ship is laid and rigged, Launched and steered out ; with these her living grave is digged. They lean close over her and long, perhaps, For the broad seas and the loud wind that claps Boisterous hands on the Ship's course ; and wait Her call who calls them with the voice of Fate. 12 POEMS in FOGGY NOON FROM BLACKFRIARS RAILWAY BRIDGE UPON the sombre waterside she lay Sullenly heaving, like a monstrous toad Breathless in the murk middle of the day : The idle lighter lumbered the dim flood. Hardly the water you might see ; the Fog Veiled it, and veiled its neighbour brooding Dome, Loading the dull noon as a giant log Loads a stream lapsing towards the too-far foam. And at the water's edge the water's guard Of rankdd eremites in solemn mood Kept their inviolate time-haunted ward Mid incommunicable solitude. A Wonder ! the Sun's hand hath clov'n the mist ; Bridge, wharf and barge suddenly break in sight ; There, from the mast a moment since unwist, A red sail scarfs the gallant conquering light. O London of the myriad changing moods, O pageant of the moment-magic 'd light, O River of the ne'er unmarvell'd floods, O City of the wizard Day-in-Night ! POEMS 13 IV NIGHT AMONG THE TREES ST. JAMES'S PARK THE monstrous Night comes down and blurs The happy hurry of the street ; Hardly a memory of life stirs Where, daylong, living wonders meet. Hardly a memory of life stirs This lonely huddle of rags, that turns And turns the burdened body of hers Which blindly for old rapture yearns. There is but wind enough to rouse Ghosts whom such deepest hours release ; They are the Ghosts of men whose woes Know not, nor e'er may know, surcease. There is no word 'mong these who brush The Trees, and their night-jewels shake ; Not the loud clock may cleave the hush Of Spirits who never silence break. O Trees, fall not to whispering The tongueless secrets of the dark, Though yours the Ghosts' wild Everything, O rooted Pities of the Park ! i 4 POEMS Let not your bright drops tell the day Man's mirrored trouble, silent Trees ! Lest some deriding Spirit stray Hither, and mar your ample peace. POEMS LEAF-FALL IN OCTOBER O FALLING leaves, O'er you compassionate tender-fingered eves Draw a white mist for shroud, O falling leaves ! The poignant thrush Singeth your fall, while careless footsteps crush And pass unheeding you, wind-stricken leaves ; And from the sky Sun, moon, and stars look on indifferently, As you had never lived, O dying leaves ! A teasing wind Rattles among the branches hourly-thinned, Driving a fugitive army of you, wild leaves ; And no more now Shall you like jewels hang on every bough In th' bright dew-nourished morn, O pallid leaves ! But the wise Earth, In whom all present death is promised birth, Takes you and us who fall like you, O leaves ! 1 6 POEMS VI A MEETING WITH SORROW YESTERE'EN I met Sorrow By Piccadilly's Park ; Near Clarges Street or Down Street She touched me in the dark. Strangers were I and Sorrow, Strangers had we been yet, But on the leaf-strewn pavement She touched me as we met. A stranger, yet I knew her, And " Sorrow ! " cried her name. Dumb was she, but her eyes spake As clear as in a dream. Eastward I turned, unheeding, I felt her at my side ; Then thought I had outpaced her, But softly Sorrow cried : " Whither art hasting, dear one ? " " I go to sup with Joy." " Nay, but with me," said Sorrow, " Thy lonely ache destroy." I answered not ; a girl passed, Swaying, beckoning, fair. ' >Ti s Joy," I said ; but Sorrow, " My Daughter, called Despair." POEMS 17 I passed, and reaching Bond Street (Still Sorrow at my side), Watched while the weary horses Late weary journeys plied. Then to my hand came Sorrow's, And straightway I could mark The endless anguish, horror, Sore travail of the dark. East and west Ghosts came swaying, Beckoning along the street ; Ghosts answered with foul yearning And lust, like man's, discreet. They took their dainty way 'Twixt Ghosts of babes unborn, That drift and wait like vapours The bright dispelling morn. A swaying Ghost's hand brushed me. I heard her dusty laughter ; And as she passed, her ghostly Slain children drifted after. I could not choose but see them, Seeing, I heard deep groans . . . Maybe my own ; 'twas piteous To see the dust and bones Bowing, smiling, and swaying, As one might see that dreamed ; While in my hand poor Sorrow's Feeble and palsied seemed. i8 POEMS Sounded the twelve of midnight Shuddering upon the dark ; And here I stood by Bond Street, And yonder gloomed the Park My hand in hand with Sorrow's, While Ghosts went reeling by ; My hand, like Sorrow's, palsied By the ghostly revelry. POEMS 19 VII JOY PAUSE ! lest by hasting thou shouldst haply miss Heaven's benediction and immortal kiss. Lest, childish-eager, thou too soon depart The Temple, for the clamour of the Mart. Stay yet a moment if by moments they Reckon, who gird thee for the mortal day ; A moment ere the glory be amerced For which the world's desire is all athirst. And now bright tender Chastity puts on Flame for thy garment, and Faith bids thee don A Star for helm ; and to thine hand there springs The Sword of Love that cleaves all lustful things ; Compassion meek, the Child Humility, Hope, and God's Daughter called Simplicity, And Angels full-content in serving thee : O with such holy, wise solicitude Art thou, O Soul, against the World endued ! Yea, and there flock the little fluttering throng Of Souls that follow soon that fear yet long To follow ah, too soon to follow ! Now, Far as may Immortality allow, They bring thee, to the dim and extreme verge Whence like a cloud our Stars are seen emerge, Lost in whose meanness this importunate World, A feather, through Eternity is whirled . . . Is it their grieving joy, their joyous grief Who yield thee ours, yea ours for Love's relief ? 20 POEMS Is it their prayers, is it their omen'd tears That wound the silence or our human fears ? O knocking at the strange gate of the Womb, O Child, O breathing Paradise, art come, art come ? POEMS 2 VIII THE FLAME O BABY-SAINT 1 From Heaven down to your darkling Body came Your Soul, as to an Altar comes the Flame When the long-watchful prayer God heareth. Without defect, without attaint, And sudden as the bird that sings when morning neareth, Came down your Soul oh, white, With streaming azure caught from the holy skies As lonely upon its flight From day to night It flew .... Lonely, yet not alone, for the air knew The eager wings and searching eyes Of young, clear-spirited confederacies Of Joy and Light ; Yea, the stars knew The neighbourhood of brighter Radiances, As through the rippled, wing-flecked way of Heaven Came down your Soul. How could a Soul so heavenly be so lowly inearthed, Snared in a Body of such helplessness, Such piteous tininess ? So strange a Soul, Without defect, without attaint, By such a frailty engirthed. Nay, Child, From Heaven unto your lightless Body came 22 POEMS Your Soul, as to an Altar comes the Flame When all about are bowed Saints whose prayer rises to God in votive cloud ; And sudden, at the Light, Laud infinite Sounds 'mid the mystic, angel-circled height. Nay, Child, From Heaven to your new-pulsing Body came Your Soul, as at the holy Name The lifted Host becometh Flesh and Blood Veritably with Divinity endued . . . As at the Name The lifted Host becometh the Self-Same Who came, Like thee, a Child, Tempering to human radiance mild (Meet for earth's humbleness) the heavenly Flame. So art become, O Child, A living Soul, by birthtime Pentecost Touched of the Holy Ghost, Even as a waiting Altar by beseeched Flame ! So art become, O Child, A living Soul and lowly Daughter of God ; So art become, Even for us blind and dumb, A Well of mystery Securely deep and clear ; An echo of world-during prophecy Which once again in thee we hear Who have forgot alike Prophet and prophecy. And as before an Altar bowed That holdeth yet the Flame, That soundeth yet with the Echo of the Name And answering adoration of the Heavenly Cloud To brief Eternities of praise con vowed, POEMS 23 We bend before thee, Miracle called a Child ! So straitened in thy Body's lowliness, Who art yet, O chiefest glory, An Emanation of Eternal Holiness ; And in these solemn birth time hours Seemst more a Child of God than Child of ours ! 24 POEMS IX WISDOM AND A MOTHER WHY, mourner, do you mourn, nor see The heavenly Earth's felicity ? I mourn for him, my Dearest, lost, Who lived a frail life at my cost. A grief like yours how many have known Were that a balm to ease my own ! Or rather might I not accuse The Hand that does not even choose, But, taking blindly, took my best, And as indifferently takes the rest . . . Like mine ? Is there denied to me Even Sorrow's singularity ? POEMS 25 x THE THRUSH SINGS SINGETH the Thrush, forgetting she is dead. . . . How could you, Thrush, forget that she is dead ? Or though forgetting, sing and she is dead ? O hush, Untimely, truant Thrush ! Singeth the Thrush, " I sing that she is dead ! " Thou thoughtless Thrush, she loved you who is dead. Singeth the Thrush, " I sing her praise though dead." O hush, Untimely, grievous Thrush ! Singeth the Thrush, " I sing your happy dead, I sing her who is living, but once dead, I sing her joy she is no longer dead." O hush, Enough, thou heavenly Thrush ! 26 POEMS XI THE MEN WHO LOVED THE CAUSE THAT NEVER DIES" O COME you down from the far hills Whereon you fought, triumphed and died, Men at whose names the quick blood thrills And the heart 's troubled in our side. Your shadows o'er our fields ere night Draw from the shadow of old trees ; Ghost-hallowed run the streams, and light Hangs halo-wise in the great peace. Warriors of England whom we praise (Ah, vain all praise !), your spirit is not Lost in the meanness of these days, Not wholly is your charge forgot ! And this perplexity of strife Not all estranged leaves our heart ; England is ours yet, and her life Hath yt\fc in ours the purest part. But come you down and stand you yet A little closer to our side, Or in the darkness we forget The cause for which Earth's noblest died ! POEMS 27 XII AT EVENING'S HUSH Now pipe no more, glad Shepherd, Your joys from this fair hill Through golden eves and still ; There sounds from yon dense quarry A burden harsh and sorry. No piping now, poor Shepherd ! Men strive with violent hand, And anger stirs the bland Blithe heaven that ne'er yet trembled, Save with great spirits assembled. No more, no more, sad Shepherd, Let thy bright fingers stray Idly in the old way ; No more their nimble glancing Set gleeful spirits a-dancing. Put by thy pipe, O Shepherd ! There needs no note of thine For men deaf, undivine . . . And lest brute hands should take it, O sorrowful Shepherd, break it ! 28 POEMS XIII NAMELESS GRIEF POOR little childish breast, troubled and heaving, With some dim sorrow grieving ; It is not well that you should reck of trouble, For whom the Earth's a bubble And God your sky. Oh, the sad ecstasy Of your insurgent sobbing, As it were throbbing Of very misery ! And yet 'tis only Some brief, unreasonable, lonely Touch of a nameless sorrow that takes you, And to such heaving trouble wakes you. Yet to us too there comes, Even as there stirs the far alarm of drums Upon a City's ear, Sense insuppressible of perpetual sadness, Of the World's madness, Of distant alien trouble ; Then verily our Earth's a bubble, And Hell our sky ; Then verily the fool's old filth In idle spilth ; The hot and hasty zealotry Of ravening evil ; Then verily The roar of the emancipated Devil Loosened amid our worship, love and faith, POEMS 29 And on our sickly streets and happy meadows Casting smoky shadows Of utter Death ; Seem all the fruit of some fell harlotry, And purchase of the Soul's apostasy. Yea, when there comes (Even as to a quiet City the far alarm of drums) Sense of iniquity daily less remote, There rise within our throat Such breaking sobs, Such bitter, insuppressible throbs Of grief unnamed, sorrow no longer mild, As in your heaving breast, sad Child, Wake tears and anguished protestations wild. 30 POEMS XIV THE PUPPET-MASTER AFTER THE PLAY HERE on this Stage of passionate mimicry Was seen to-night Life's rank complexity Explicate aptly, and made clear to sight, Its main and motive for our loud delight. . . . God ! that men so bemock their life, and mime Death, with Death waiting their ordained time. Here's a man simulates hypocrisy ; A frail Thing's taken in adultery ; Here's the exasperate husband, duly wroth With sin and sinner indifferent to both. Oh ! when the Puppet-Master, Death, lets fall On these and their close throng his timely pall, While Life, whose skirts they finger, idles past Still heedless, self-intent oh ! let the last Echo of this futility be forgot, And the Soul speak what now the Soul knows not 1 POEMS 31 xv ON A PIECE OF SILVER So ! the fierce acid licks the silver clean, Unwonted plain the superscription 's seen Round the cleared head ; the metal, virgin-bright, Shines a mild Moon to the Sun candle-light. And in these floating stains, this evil murk, All your change-crowded, moment-histories lurk, Voluble Silverling ! Dost yield me now Your chance-illumined record, and allow Prying of idle eyes ? . . . you came a boon To men as weary as any the weak moon Shines on but cheers not ; you were life in death ; Almost a God to give the prize of breath, Almost a God to give the prize of joy, Almost a God but God ! the veriest toy Child's fingers break, from death to buy back life, Turn the keen trouble of grief's eager knife Or sense-confounded hearts heal of the ancient strife. O Coin that men have toiled for, lacked and mourned, Sold life for and sold honour, won and scorned ; O Coin that oft hath been a spinning Fate, Yet impotent her bitterness to abate ; O Coin that Love contemns, reckoning nought (But with you, ah Love's best is sold and bought) Heart of the harlot, you ; the Judas blood Hell's devils leech on.; you the Price of God ! 32 POEMS XVI EARTH TO EARTH WHAT is the soul ? Is it the wind Among the branches of the mind ? Is it the sea against Time's shore Breaking and broken evermore ? Is it the shore that breaks Time's sea, The verge of vast Eternity ? And in the night is it the soul Sleep needs must hush, must needs kiss whole ? Or does the soul, secure from sleep, Safe its bright sanctities yet keep ? And oh, before the body's death Shall the confined soul ne'er gain breath, But ever to this serpent flesh Subdue its alien self afresh ? Is it a bird that shuns Earth's night, Or makes with song Earth's darkness bright ? Is it indeed a thought of God, Or merest clod-fellow to clod ? A thought of God, and yet subdued To any passion's apish mood ? Itself a God and yet, O God, As like to Earth as clod to clod ! POEMS 33 XVII THE ESCAPE LIKE one who runs Fearful at night, he knows not why, Dreading the loneliness, yet shuns The highway's casual company ; Wherefore he hastes, The friendly gloom of ancient trees Unheeding, and the shining wastes Lying broad and quiet as the seas ; The beauty of night Hating for very fear, until Beyond the bend a lowly light Beams single from a lowly sill ; And the poor fool, Flying the sacred, solemn dark, Leaves gladly the large, cool Night for that serviceable spark ; And thankful then To have 'scaped the peril of the way, Turns not his timid steps again That night, but waits the common day ; So I, as weak, Have fled the great hills of Thy Love, Too faint to hear what Thou dost speak, Too feeble with fear to look above, 34 POEMS And hasten to win Some flickering, brief security, In sinful sleep or waking sin, From the enfolding thought of Thee ! POEMS 35 XVIII THE TREE OH, like a tree Let me grow up to Thee ! And like a Tree Send down my roots to Thee. Let my leaves stir In each sigh of the air, My branches be Lively and glad in Thee ; Each leaf a prayer, And green fire everywhere . . . And all from Thee The sap within the Tree. And let Thy rain Fall or as Joy or Pain, So that I be Yet unforgot of Thee. Then shall I sing The new Song of Thy Spring, Every leaf of me Whispering Love in Thee ! 36 POEMS XIX HEALING LAST night the teasing Moon upon my bed Flung legions of wild dreams and tangled fears. Down the broad silver highway like dim spears They flew, and thronged appealing round my head, All pale and sad as wraiths of men new dead. Pity was in my eyes and thickening tears Of general sorrow for the grief of years, And vague despair for all lives vainly shed. . . . For all vain things that Death hath in his keeping. Till thou, whose love nor Time nor Change could mar, With a mere look didst calm my heart unsleeping, And lead me back where first, O my soul's Star ! I touched thy brow and kissed thine eyes late weeping, 'Mid glimmering isles of numerous nenuphar. POEMS 37 xx THE SISTERS " SISTER, this is the gladdest thing in Love Love all you can, you cannot love enough ! And though you spend your heart's most truest gold, It is too poor to buy what 's giv'n, not sold. Sister, it is the saddest thing in Love To love a man all men and spirits above, Unlocking the long-closed chambers of the heart, So deathly-dusty, where no light had part, Unsealing wells forgotten, overgrown (And who but Love could lift earth's grievous stone ?) ; To live to love thus, knowing Love is life, And but a dream earth's impotence of strife ; It is but pardon ! you are too, too grave (Are you not, Mary ?) to give heed now, save As She, our Mother, used to yield us smiles When on her pain we, thoughless, broke at whiles With our child's chatter. . . . Yet not pain is yours, But truly, Love hath built his temple towers, I think, beyond the horizon of your eye : There needs no chart for us who sail thereby, Flying an eager sail, a rapid wing. . . . O see now ! how my lips are f am to sing What my words fail in telling ; let me be. I'll say but Love hath bound me, then set free ; I'll say but Love hath smitten me sore, and then Hath gladdened me with the same blow again ; I'll say but Love hath struck my death to death, And in this barren body of me put breath ; 3 8 POEMS Hath given me there ! I'll tease no more your thought Of grave things, what 's to sell or what be bought, And infinite matters of this moping house. Your eyes are troubled as a nun's whose vows Are kept at first for love's sake, then because Vows grown half-irksome are deemed Heaven's laws. Nay, I'd not grieve you, nor I will not chafe Your home-contented thoughts with thoughts unsafe Even for Love's lovers to give utterance to. And yet how should I lock my joy from you ? ' ' How long ? I seem to have known him all my days, And yet each morning shews new subtle ways Of loving. . . . Well, 'tis hardly a full score Of weeks since first we met, not long before You came back from your wilful exile, dear, So far an exile through so many a year ! Oh, when you see him, you'll not wonder then That I should love him, love my man of men. But I have told him little of you yet, Scarcely your name ; but when you once have met Harold . . . "Why, Mary, why this face, "This look, unspeakable ? Have you in the old days, Have you too loved a Harold ? Oh, I'm sad, Mary, oh, sorry, if I, too thoughtless-glad, Have roughly stirred There ! I will say no more ; But let me see your eyes, sweet as before, So grave, yet cheerful always lovely ! Nay, His portrait ? Oh, I wear it here ; but pray, Pray do not ask to see it, lest perchance It brings your sudden pain back. . . . Well, a glance ! " POEMS 39 " O Margaret, how forgive me for the grief Your heart will take from my lips ? yet relief Comes not to me who speak. O Margaret, I have loved like you, and like you I have set Love's altar right amid mine innermost heart, And oh ! Love's bitterness is all my part." " Nay, forgive me, my Mary, who have said Heedless such things as nightly to my bed I say too heedless, even mocking when I deemed You had never loved. But Mary, dear, it seemed There was more pardon ! in your eyes than tears For Love flown, more than sorrow . . . " " Oh ! if years Of grief could speak for me and I be dumb ! With Love I found, ah ! cruel sorrow come. But sorrow yet were kindly ; but there came To me, with sorrow . . . wrong and . . . Mary, shame. Here in my breast was milk once ; now there burns The ash that 's left when Love to loathing turns. And still each night a new child wakes within My womb, and with each morn is dead, of sin. Margaret, Margaret, how can I ..." " Oh but stay ! No more now, Mary." " Never if not to-day ! Margaret, forgive ! his name was Harold too ; And the portrait ..." " God ! can it be be true ! " 40 POEMS TO MY MOTHER No foreign tribute from a stranger-hand, Mother, I bring thee, whom not Heaven's songs Would as an alien reach. . . . Ah, but how far From Heaven's least heavenly is the changing note And changing fancy of these fitful cries ! Mother, forgive them, as the best of me Hath ever pleaded only for thy pardon, Not for thy praise. Mother, there is a love Men give to wives and children, lovers, friends ; There is a love which some men give to God. Ah ! between this, I think, and that last love, Last and too-late-discovered love of God, There shines and nearer to the love of God The love a man gives only to his mother, Whose travail of dear thought hath never end Until the End. Oh that my mouth had words Comfortable as thy kisses to the boy Who loved while he forgot thee ! Now I love, Sundered and far, with daily heart's remembrance, The face the wind brings to me, the sun lights, The birds and waters sing ; the face of thee Whom I love with a love like love of God. Printed by Haztll, Watson & Viney, Ld., London and Aylcsbury. Gaylord Bros, Makers Syracuse. N Y. PAT. JAN. 2 1.1 908 394244 UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA LIBRARY UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA LIBRARY, BERKELEY THIS BOOK IS DUE ON THE LAST DATE STAMPED BELOW Books not returned on time are subject to a fine of 50c per volume after the third day overdue, increasing to $1.00 per volume after the sixth day. Books not in demand may be renewed if application is made before expiration of loan period. MIT it